University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

ANOTHER DEATH-BED.

—Burns.

But we have almost forgotten the other
orphan of our tale. Fanny, the little sister
of Henry Fowler—but what was there
in her quiet, guileless life, to chronicle? She
was so young at the death of her mother that
the change of homes could not affect her
very deeply, and she soon found in her little
playmates, the children of Mrs. Martin, new
objects to love; and to love was, with her,
to be happy. And by unnumbered acts of
kindness and affection she knit the hearts of
her little friends to herself. She was ever
first in sporting with the young children, and
in ministering by every little act of a loving
spirit, to her dear mother, as she fondly called
her benefactress. But if there was one
thing more than another in the heart of the
little maiden, it was a deep and abiding love
for her brother. To her mind there was
none in the wide world like him; none were
so kind, so generous, so brave, so learned.
Every little secret of her heart was confided
to him; every little trouble sought in him a
cure. Indeed, it was a strange and holy
thing—the love which those two orphans
bore each other. They seemed to realize
that they were alone in the world—that they
were all to one another. The love was entwined
around their hearts like two interlocking
tendrils of one vine, which might
not be sundered but with death to both.
Each was happy but in the joy of the other.

The other children of the family, Richard
and Charles Martin, were of entirely different
dispositions. Richard, the eldest, was a
reserved, suspicious boy, jealous of the least
attention paid to another, which he did not

share, and possessed of a revengful temper.
Charles, on the contrary, was the counterpart
of his mother—the same lovely, kindly
disposition—studious of the good of others,
and totally regardless of self. And of course
he was the favorite of little Fanny; while
Richard's disposition, as soon as it began to
manifest itself, caused the little girl to shun
him, instinetively, and bestow all her attention
on her favorite. Nor was Richard
more of a favorite with Henry; yet, strange
to say, his mother seemed to love him better
than his brother; it might be that he had
the faculty of concealing his bad qualities
from his doting parent; certain it is, that the
mother manifested more affection for him
than for the little bright-eyed, rosy, happy
Charles.

Mr. Abbot did not forget his promise. The
next morning, accompanied by William, he
came to the abode of Mrs. Martin. Nor did
he merely come, as many do, to look on misery,
depart, and come no more. He took
active measures to smooth the poor woman's
passage to the grave, and relieve her mind
from all anxiety respecting her children.
The story of Henry had enlisted all his sympathies
in favor of the lowly widow, whose
mite had been shared with the orphan and
the fatherless. The youngest boy was already
provided for by the kidness of a relation,
who gladly welcomed his bright little
face into the circle of her own children.

Mr. Abbot had already offered to Henry a
situation in his store, and he now resolved
that Richard should also be admitted. None
now remained but the sweetest one of all—
the little Fanny; and a sister of Mrs. Abbot's,
a resident of Newburyport, entreated that
the dear child might be committed to her
care; for she had been charmed with the
simple truthfulness of the little maiden, and,
having no children of her own, wished to
adopt her. This was, if possible, a more
severe trial to her brother, than to herself;
to be separated, even for a little distance,
and with even the prospect of seeing her
often, from his only sister, seemed like tearing
apart his heartstrings. But he knew it
was for the best, and he manfully restrained
his sorrow, and, wiping away the scalding
tears that streamed fast from his sister's eyes,
he bade her be of good heart and courage,
and they would soon be united again. Poor
child! she knew not how her brother could
wish her to go, but she knew he wished it,
and what he desired was to her a law—and
she dried her tears, and resting her head on
his bosom, mourned herself to sleep, in silent
sorrow of heart.

It was midnight. The candle burned
dimly on the table; the dying embers shot
forth a sickly light; and the wind howled
around the frail tenement. Henry lay asleep
on a bench by the fire; for he had become
exhausted by continued watching, which
nature could sustain no longer. The younger
children slumbered in an inner room; and
Richard sat at a table poring over “Rinaldo
Rinaldini.” On a bed in a corner of the
poor apartment, lay the sick mother; and at
intervals the moans, that she struggled hard
to repress, told of the agony she endured.
The care of Mr. Abbot had supplied her
with a nurse; but she had left the house, a
short time before, to summon to the bedside
a sister of Mrs. Martin, whom she had expressed
a desire to see.

Richard rose and approached the bed; his
mother lay upon her side, and she raised her
eyes to his face, with a faint smile.

“Mother, it is time to take your drops.”

“Stop, Richard,” said she, and taking
from beneath her pillow a little key, she directed
him to open a trunk beside the bed.
He obeyed, and, at her indication, drew
from it a small parcel.

“Richard, my boy, I am dying! I shall
not last till morning.” The boy seized her
hand, and, while the tears gushed from his
eyes, and his whole frame shook, cried,

“Oh, no, no! mother! no, you will not
die—”

“Yes, my child' ” said Mrs. Martin; “but
I shall die happy; the good Mr. Abbot has
promised to take you under his care. Richard,”
continued she, impressively, “remember
the last words of your mother; fear
God, my son; do on sin: never be guilty of
a falsehood, never! and always do your duty
to your master, and your God. And this
packet—” said she, speaking with difficulty,
“I hoped to have seen Mr. Abbot once more,
—but this—when I am gone—take it—”

Suddenly an awful change came over her
countenance; she gasped for breath, and uttering
a stifled cry, sank back upon the pillow.
Henry sprung from where he had
been sleeping, and rushed to the bed—Richard
hastily concealed the packet.

Mrs. Martin was in the agonies of death.
Henry threw himself upon the bed beside
her, and implored her to speak to him. Her
lips half opened, and she strove for utterance;
but in vain. The hand of the cold
tyrant was upon her. But even in the pangs
of dissolution, her eye shone with the joy of
a Christian's hope, and her bright smile fell
upon Henry, as if it were a glimpse of that
heaven to which she was rapidly speeding.
She grasped his hand, and placing within it
the trembling fingers of Richard, seemed to
consign her son to the care of the elder orphan.
Then sinking back again on her pillow,
she awaited, in silent resignation, the
stroke of death.

It was a sad thing to see those children
watching by the bedside of the dying woman.
They spoke not to one another, but listened
fearfully to her short, quick breathings, and
gazed wildly on her changing features. Suddenly,
the breathing ceased—all was silent!
Her slack hand embraced their own no longer,
and a moaning cry broke from their bosoms,
for they knew that death was among
them!